The Sun Sets Grey Over the Hills Tonight
by Ryeloza
Summary: Giving up isn't so easy.  Tom/Lynette.  Spoilers for the finale.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Trust me, _Desperate Housewives_ is NOT mine. You all know that things would have turned out a lot differently tonight if it was.

**Story Summary: **Giving up isn't so easy. Spoilers for the finale.

**A/n: **I won't even get into the 1000 ways this show broke my heart tonight. I'm sure most of you feel similarly. But I will say that I was completely disgusted by the whole thing (and once I regain my bearings, I'll probably rant about it on my blog). This is a response to how overwhelmingly disappointed I am (in the writers—the actors blew me out of the water).

I'm pretty sure this will be a multi-chapter fic (as long as I don't become completely dispirited over the summer). Based very loosely on two songs: "You Are My Sunshine" by Liliana Rose and "The Hill" from the _Once_ soundtrack, just because every time I hear those songs now, I think about this tragedy.

Please let me know what you think.

**The Sun Sets Grey Over the Hills Tonight**

A story by **Ryeloza**

It starts with a letter.

She's digging through the bedroom closet looking for the graduation present they bought for Parker eons ago and trying to fight the overwhelming feelings that have been building all day. It's too much, everything going on inside of her, and she can slowly feel her insides going numb in an attempt to shield her from emotional overload. This should be exciting: her baby is graduating from high school. Instead she feels something that can only be most closely akin to dread.

Tonight is the end. They've been lying to everyone for the past week, claiming that Tom has been out of town, some uneasy agreement they came to born of so many excuses. Not wanting to ruin Parker's graduation; wanting to get him and Penny through the end of the school year before they broke their hearts; an unspoken dread of actually telling the kids at all: a million little reasons that they could drag out forever if they wanted. But this can't go on—they can't lie forever—and they agreed.

After tonight.

After tonight, they'll fracture their family, probably forever. After tonight, they'll hurt their kids in irreparable ways. After tonight, they really will be going through with this.

In so many ways she just wants to get it over with; just rip off the bandage and slowly move on, slowly begin to heal. And at the same time, she wishes she could freeze this moment forever and never let it go. Their last night as a family.

If she had any strength left, she might let herself cry.

Her hand skates over the edge of a box, and she tugs at it a little too hard. Without warning it topples over, its contents nearly careening into her head; she ducks just in time. She ignores the mess, going back up on her toes to pat down the shelf, but she doesn't feel the brightly wrapped package. Wearily, she resigns herself to the fact that she must have tucked the gift away elsewhere—under the bed maybe?—and crouches down to begin to clean up the mess.

It's a box of her old stuff; what few mementos she saved from her childhood. She sighs heavily—the last thing she wants to think of is her past (_any_ part of her past)—and haphazardly begins to throw things back into the box. An award she won for an essay contest; an old trophy from a speech debate; a playbill from her tragically bad foray into high school musical theater: remnants of a woman she scarcely feels is a part of her now. She barely glances at any of it; she hardly pays attention until she comes across the letter.

The paper escaped an old poetry book she tucked away in this box for whatever reason, the edges curled and the creases so worn that the paper nearly falls apart in her hands as she opens it. The print is almost illegible, faded after so many years of seclusion, but she can just make out the signature. Adam—her first serious boyfriend. The first boy who ever broke her heart. She laughs, but it's only to keep from crying.

The irony is horrid.

For some reason, she finds herself scanning the words, wondering why she kept this, why it is still tucked among her few youthful possessions. And then, as her eyes skim, her whole body seems to still, slowing down in an almost violent manner, and suddenly she's reading and re-reading this old letter again and again. It is unstoppable in its power over her.

_Babe, I've been thinking and you're definitely right—we should try again. I know things got a little heated last night, but I don't know…There was just something about the way you were yelling at me. All that passion was hot as hell. Like most girls would have just broke down crying, but you're different. You actually _fought_ for me. That was cool._

_I so totally don't care if my friends think you're a bitch. They're idiots. _

_Let's get back together._

_Adam_

_PS: That girl totally meant nothing. You know you're the only one I care about, baby._

She raises a trembling hand to her mouth. The tears come now, unbidden and without warning, and it's just about the most pathetic she's ever been in her life. Sitting in her closet, reading a thirty year old "love" letter and crying her eyes out.

But it's not really about Adam.

And it's not about Tom either. Not really.

_You actually _fought_ for me_.

She fought.

She fought for a guy she'd been dating three months. She fought for a guy who, yes, she had cried over and mourned, but also forgot in a matter of weeks. She fought for a guy whose most significant contribution to her life was buying her lunch when she didn't have enough money one time.

She fought.

And she realizes with sudden, horrible clarity that somewhere along the way, she lost that instinct. Somewhere in the past few weeks—months?—years?—it simply disappeared. She hasn't been fighting _for_ anything. She and Tom argued; they picked one another raw with heated words and pointed comments and plain old meanness. But they hadn't fought. They hadn't fought for each other. They hadn't fought for their marriage.

They just gave up.

She just gave up.

She gave up on the guy she's spent twenty-two years with. She gave up on the guy she shares five children with. She gave up on the guy she's built an entire life with.

For the first time, she feels this horrible wave of grief—one she has been anticipating for so long now that she feared it might never come. But it surprises her because it is nothing she thought it would be.

It is grief for herself.

Because she no longer has any idea who she is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **It absolutely isn't mine.

**A/n: **Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed! Your interest really is great motivation to continue (and writing this is surprisingly cathartic—hopefully it can get me through this long summer).

Just as a side note, I am following my own timeline for the kids' ages here. The twins are twenty, Parker is eighteen, Penny is fourteen, and Paige is fourteen months.

Please let me know what you think. Your feedback always means the world to me.

-Ryeloza

**The Sun Sets Grey Over the Hills Tonight**

A story by **Ryeloza**

It isn't planned by any means, but somehow she and Tom end up sitting next to one another at Parker's graduation that night.

Like all of their family events, this one is mass chaos from the start. Tom arrives at the last possible moment, and Penny is running around looking for her jacket, and she realizes at the last second that she has to put more diapers in her bag for Paige, and there's a whole host of confusion over whether the twins are driving with them or meeting them there. It's finally Penny who reaches Preston on his cell, and it's an awkward moment as she and Tom look at one another and realize that the twins are apparently not speaking to them. She wonders if she'll be able to convince them to come over tomorrow.

So by the time they get to the football field, the stands are packed, and they're forced to crowd into an already tight row. She purposely tries to send Penny in after Tom, but her daughter runs off to find a bathroom instead, and she has no choice but to follow Tom in. She sets down her bag between them—ostensibly to save seats, but they both know that's not the real reason—but Penny gets back around the same time the twins arrive and everyone is scrambling around. Finally, Tom picks up the bag and sets it on the ground, and Lynette gingerly scoots over next to him, making sure to leave space between them.

This is it. The rest of her life, staring her right in the face.

Even though they've barely made it on time, Lynette feels like that last five minutes before the ceremony starts are the longest of her life. The kids are absorbed in conversation while she and Tom aren't speaking, and she keeps wishing that someone she knows would sit down in front of her, but she's surrounded by parents she's never spoken to in her life. When Tom pulls out his cell phone—just the sight of it raises her ire—she busies herself with Paige, taking her pudgy hands and bouncing her a little on her lap. She'll be fourteen months old this week.

It's going to be hard not to track the dissent of her marriage by her daughter's age.

_Oh yes. Fourteen months ago we were happy. Our youngest was just born._

_Yeah, it was around her first birthday that Tom got that new job._

_We broke up when she was fourteen months old._

And so on for the rest of Paige's life. _The divorce was finalized the day she said her first word_ or _I missed her third Christmas because she was with Tom_ or _Paige is five now…I can't believe we've been apart for four years_.

It will be impossible in mind if not in spirit to spend the rest of her life looking at her baby and remembering the end of her marriage. It's not fair or right or even logical, but there are too many milestones in these first few years that will now forever be associated with this dissolution of her entire life. She kisses the top of Paige's head, and vows to never let her know.

"Do you have the programs?"

She looks up, startled. It's the first thing Tom has said to her in a week.

"I stuck them in the diaper bag."

He goes rummaging as she peers off into the distance to where the graduates are lining up. She's glad when the processional starts a moment later, and she can blame her tears exclusively on seeing her baby in his cap and gown. It's hard to believe that it was two years ago that the twins went through this; hard to believe that in four more years, it will be Penny.

She wonders if that graduation will be as stilted and hard as this one. Still unable to talk; still angry and sad and tired; still throbbing with pain. She wants to think that it will get better, but she knows it won't. It's not like they're walking away from this marriage knowing that it _all_ ends. The truth is that they're always going to be parents. Their kids bond them together forever in a way that absolutely can't be broken no matter if they're together or apart, happy or miserable, in love or indifferent (and she wonders if it will ever be possible to feel indifferent about Tom; just the thought of it makes her sad). It's suddenly impossibly hard to imagine that for the rest of their lives they'll sit through graduations and school plays and weddings together and not really _be together_. It's impossible to think of how someday they'll have grandchildren—sweet little babies to spoil rotten—and only share that joy through genetics.

These realizations of what they're actually doing have been falling into place like puzzle pieces for days now. Their lives apart, and what that means. It's gradually beginning to feel like maybe this is all too fast, like maybe she hasn't given this enough thought, but then she wonders if it's just the fear talking.

The fear of being alone.

The fear of being a single mother.

The fear of hurting her children.

Maybe it's just the emotions of the day getting to her: Parker, all grown up, and knowing that they have to tell the kids what's going on tomorrow, and facing a completely unclear future with only the certainty being that Tom won't be a part of it. They're the kind of overwhelming feelings that make her want to do something stupid like ask him not to go.

Except that she really kind of does want to—and doesn't.

Except that she's terrified he'll say no and walk away from her forever and then it won't have been her choice.

Parker is graduating in a class of three hundred and fifty, so by the time they finally wind down toward the latter half of the alphabet, people are already restless and chatting quietly amongst themselves. Lynette finds herself resenting their easy conversations; parents joking and laughing and celebrating together. She and Tom remain resolutely and stonily silent, and she wishes she could pluck up the nerve to break this stalemate. The words lie on the tip of her tongue: "I can't believe our baby is graduating," or "Do you remember when Parker started kindergarten?" or "God, we're going to be ancient by the time we get to Paige"—but it's all too sentimental and jokey and intimate for what they are right now.

Vaguely, she wonders if that's part of the problem. When did she start censoring her thoughts? When did she become unable to share the good along with the bad?

When did they become completely unable to communicate with one another?

"Mom." Penny nudges her and Lynette realizes that Parker's row is up. Her eyes are already misty as she scrambles for her camera, and maybe that's why she's surprised when Porter reaches past Penny and takes it from her hand.

"I'll do it," he says. It's the first time he's spoken directly to her since that night they argued about the vacation; without warning, the tears spill over her lashes and slip down her cheeks. _He knows_, she thinks as he gives her a tired, half-smile and turns on the camera. The thought is ridiculous—he might suspect, but how could he possibly _know_?—but she feels it deep inside like a sudden heartache that won't go away.

"Mom," Porter says gently, nodding his head in the direction of the football field. "You don't want to miss it."

She smiles tremulously and turns to look at the stage. Parker is just two away now, and it's impossible to even bother trying to stop crying. Taking a deep breath, she forces every thought and worry from her body, determined to enjoy this moment for what it is.

"Parker Lindquist Scavo," the superintendent calls. The lump in her throat is so large that she can't muster even a sound, but the kids cheer loudly, startling Paige as she cranes her head around to study the outburst of sound. Beside her, Tom seems just as choked up as he claps enthusiastically; he wipes his eyes as Parker accepts his diploma, and without thinking she reaches out and clasps her fingers around his wrist.

Time slows down for a moment. He glances down at her and manages a small smile, and she knows exactly what it means. It's everything she's thinking reflected back at her; a shared pride they'll never lose.

And then it's over. He's looking back at the program in his lap and that connection is gone, and all she feels is a gaping emptiness where it just was. And she realizes…

She's not ready. Even if this day is particularly hard, even if she's overemotional, even if she's dreading tomorrow: all of those big things add up to the one thing she absolutely doesn't want to admit.

As Parker makes the long trek back to his seat, Lynette's eyes drift down to stare at her fingers, still gripping Tom's wrist.

She doesn't let go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **It is most certainly not mine. Author's notes at end.

**The Sun Sets Grey Over the Hills Tonight**

A story by **Ryeloza**

Tom is so exhausted by the time he stumbles to the pull-out sofa that his first instinct is to ignore the note tacked to his pillow. It's a juvenile response born of the same suffocating impatience that has been gnawing away at him for weeks now, and though he immediately feels ashamed, he fights the impulse. After all, he worked twelve hours today—he was at the office before six—and the graduation was almost more tiring. Just the effort of keeping up appearances, the dirty looks from the twins, the horribly jawing guilt that he can't explain let alone get rid of: it drained him. By the time they took pictures and went home for cake and watched the kids go their separate ways, Tom wanted nothing more than to collapse and sleep for a year.

Instead he stayed up watching television until Parker got home from his party. It makes him feel slightly ridiculous, creeping around so the kids won't realize that everything is about to fall apart. It's a fool's errand; he knows from experience that marital tension filters through the entire house like a disease. He watched his parents pretend for years that they were happy and they hadn't fooled anyone.

What's truly sad is how he still broke when they announced they were getting divorced (it's that thought that makes him almost crippled with fear over telling the kids tomorrow). He and Lynette had sat up so late that night, drinking (him more than her) while he talked and she listened and commiserated and comforted him. At one point he can half-remember begging her, "Please promise me that'll never be us."

The memory jars him more than he'd like to admit. He can't remember her response—it's all lost in a drunken haze—but it doesn't really matter. At the time it had been his worst nightmare.

It's why he understands exactly what she meant when she said she felt relief; because he had felt it too. The relief of escaping the fighting and anger and resentment. The relief finding a solution (even if it is only the quickest, easiest, most cowardly). And for both of them, relief in knowing they could survive their greatest fear. Lynette isn't the only one who has spent their marriage most afraid of waking up one day to find her partner gone. And now they know: it is possible to walk away and still go on. Alone.

But it makes him wonder what he fears most now. The unknown, maybe? The uncertainness of the future?

He sighs. It's too late to be thinking about this. He's too tired. But it's also impossible to turn off his mind, so, with reluctance, he stops fighting the inevitable. He picks up the note, eyes automatically looking to the fresh script—Lynette's spiky, no-nonsense handwriting. His stomach twists into knots at the sight of it, and he's not sure if it's because of the familiarity of her script or the words themselves; he can't even identify if he's feeling hope or anxiety or some strange combination.

_I'm not ready to give up on us._

Just eight simple, life-changing words.

For too long he just stares like he can't comprehend the words (but he can and they scare him to death). It's too much to figure out what he's feeling because he's pretty sure he's experiencing every emotion all at once and it's going to kill him. Desperately, he pushes it aside and concentrates on her instead. What prompted this? Is it regret or panic or fear or love or cowardice? What motivated her to write this tonight and leave it for him to find?

Does it really matter?

As much as he wants to know what she's thinking, this really isn't about her right now. Because she's waiting upstairs for him; waiting for him to come tell her yes or no, waiting for a response, and he has no idea what to say. He has no idea what he wants. Stay or go; fight or run? Why—Everything was settled, and he almost hates her for changing her mind and throwing all the cards up in the air again.

Almost hates her except for that tiny spark of hope inside of him.

_It's not good to draw this out, _he thinks. _It's not good for us. It's not good for the kids. It's not…good._

And he thinks that this is what he should say to her. He should go upstairs and firmly tell her that they are over because they decided and that's that.

It's the stupidest thing he's ever thought. If ever there is a time to change his mind…But is there a point?...But what if she's right? He groans. This is impossible. And maybe that's why he turns and heads upstairs before he thinks it through. With every step he can hear the echo of _bad idea, bad idea, bad idea _ringing in his mind. He has no idea how he's going to respond, but he does know that going in blind and bumbling his way through this will probably make everything worse.

It doesn't stop him from knocking quietly on the door and entering when he hears her beckon.

She's sitting in the middle of their bed with her legs crossed and her hands on her knees, and it couldn't be more obvious that she's been waiting for him. The sight of her makes him stop short—_what is he doing?_—and his throat is dry and he has no idea what to say. That's so much of the problem lately. He has no idea what to say. Every time he opens his mouth, it only seems to bother her; every time he opens his mouth, he knows that he's not saying the right thing.

Like now.

"I—What is this?" he manages to spit out, waving the note a little too accusatorily. It's not how he means it, not at all, but it's like he has no control over his words any more.

She barely flinches. She is steel. "It's a statement."

"Lyn—"

"And a question," she interrupts, and he just stops.

It's a question he doesn't know how to answer.

It's a question he didn't think she'd ever ask.

And in his panic, impulse takes over.

"I don't think—Staying here isn't good for either of us. It's not good for the kids."

"I agree," she says, and his eyes widen considerably. He thought she wanted…But then he hasn't been able to figure out what she wants for quite some time now. He certainly hadn't anticipated any of this. "I think it might be good for us to take some time apart. But I meant what I said: I'm not ready to give up. We owe it…" She trails off for a second, uncertain—when did she lose her confidence?—and then says, "…to the kids."

"If we can't work things out together, how are we going to work them out apart?" he asks—but it sounds like a demand, and he hates himself for it. She winces at the bitterness in his voice, and he stands up straighter against it even though it feels like a blow to his soul.

"Tom," she says. Her voice is small and quiet; he doesn't recognize it. "Just six months ago you asked me not to give up on us. You asked me to remember all of the beautiful moments we've had together." She blinks and looks up at him, obviously trying not to cry, and he knows that she's never been stronger and more fragile in her life. God, she's always such a paradox, and for the first time ever, he wishes she was straightforward. "Are you really ready to give all of that up?"

"I just…I'm so tired of fighting with you."

"Me too. And I think that's why we need some space. We need to figure out ourselves; we need to figure out what we want."

"And then…?"

"And then we see if we can fix this. Fix us." She tilts her head, running her fingers through her hair and heaving a little sigh. "Don't you want to be able to say we did everything we could? Because right now I feel like we're just giving up because we're too tired to find a solution."

It's true. And also not. He doesn't know what to say to her because it feels cynical and false to say they're just putting off the inevitable, but there's almost too much hope in this promise as well.

"We can't give up on twenty-one years of marriage in a matter of weeks. Not…Not after everything we've been through." Her voice rises just a little at the end, making it a question, and he thinks back to that night six months ago when he asked the same of her. He thinks of how scared he was, of how terribly he wanted to fix the unfixable. He remembers how relieved he was when she came downstairs the next morning and took his hand.

He's nodding before he even realizes he's made a decision, and he wonders if this is part of the problem. They both live by impulse, and it's so, so dangerous. And yet…

"Okay," he says slowly, almost sighing the word and praying he's not making the biggest mistake of his life (wondering if maybe he just sidestepped the biggest). "How is this going to work?"

She perks up just a little, and the eager hope in her eyes sparks something inside of him as well. For the first time in too long, he feels some kind of optimism. "Well," she says, "I'm not sure. I don't want to go back to counseling."

"God no."

Torn between a scowl and a smile, she continues. "But I had…a thought."

"What?"

"What if we…" she starts, plucking at the bedspread and not quite meeting his eyes. She takes a steadying breath and begins again. "What if we try writing down what we're feeling?"

"What?" He chuckles involuntarily which is horrible in so many ways, but he can't help it. "Writing?"

"It was the only thing that worked for us. In therapy. I just think…We're not communicating with each other, but maybe if we write it down…" She shrugs self-consciously, still not looking at him, but all of the laughter he felt building has passed. As crazy as it sounds, she is right. The journaling, the letters, writing things out before they spoke: it had helped. And as insurmountable as this seems right now, it's the first suggestion either of them have had that really makes him pause.

"Yeah," he agrees, hating her a little for the way her eyes finally find his, desperately searching his to make sure he's not joking. She makes him feel like a monster—heartless—when she looks at him that way, and it's not fair. "You're right."

"Really?"

"Yes." He snaps the word, and for the hundredth time he wonders why his temper is so short with her these days. He takes a deep breath to quell his anger. "I think we should try it."

"Okay."

"Okay."

They stare at one another, and he's about to leave because it's late and tomorrow is going to be long and horrible. They still have to tell the kids he's moving out even if they can now soften the blow by saying they're not getting divorced. Just as he turns to go, though, she speaks again.

"One email a day. And it has to mean…something."

He nods. It's time to stop skirting around these issues.

It's time to try to see if this can really be fixed.

And suddenly, he's fairly certain what his greatest fear is now.

* * *

><p><strong>An: **Okay, I know that there's no way in hell the show is going to go in this direction (let's face it—letter writing does not make fascinating television), but this fic isn't necessarily meant to be a realistic look at the direction season eight could take. It's more…I don't even know: a character examination, and my lashing out at the writers for wanting me to believe that these characters are going to give up after just a couple of rough months without even TRYING to work things out, and my own way of working through my issues with this show, and a hope to retain the love I have for Tom and Lynette as a couple. And I also hope that it cheers up those of you who are also devastated after the finale because I know after talking to some of you that this couple means as much to you as they do to me.

Still, I want it to be in character and flow and be entertaining, so I hope it lives up to that as well. I'm especially worried about how I'm writing Tom (I don't want him to come across as completely unsympathetic, but it's harder to grasp his character because he's been acting so bizarrely on the show lately). Of course any feedback will be most warmly welcomed—I'm glad I have to guys to help me through the summer.

-Ryeloza


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **This isn't mine at all.

**A/n: **Thank you all for the lovely words of encouragement! I'm glad you're enjoying this story. I have a feeling it's going to be a long one, so I hope you'll stick with me.

On another note, I have a feeling that this fic is really going to ignore the whole murder cover-up from the season finale. It's too much outside the realm of what's going on in this story for me to logically fit it in (at least at the moment), so I hope you'll forgive me this slight diversion from reality.

I'm thinking of setting up some kind of Tom/Lynette summer project to help pass the time until the premiere (maybe a community kind of thing), but I'm not sure if there would be any interest or not. If this sounds like something remotely appealing, I'd love to hear your opinions (emails or PMs are always welcome!).

Reviews are love.

-Ryeloza

**The Sun Sets Grey Over the Hills Tonight**

A story by **Ryeloza**

They tell the kids over breakfast.

It goes so much worse than Tom expects it too.

Lynette is up before dawn, and he can hear her in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher and cleaning up the remains of their celebration from the night before. The sound of her creates this unexpected weight in his chest, like an elephant is sitting on him, crushing, crushing, crushing—almost like regret but so much worse because it's not really. He has barely slept and his eyes are gritty with exhaustion; all night his thoughts have run together like sand through a sieve, impossible to hold on to or connect, sometimes slipping into ephemeral dreams. Nothing remains more than a moment in his mind, though, before it slips away forever forgotten.

When Lynette comes in to wake him up a couple of hours later, he doesn't bother to pretend he is asleep. "Did you sleep at all?" she asks, and it hurts to see the concern in her eyes for reasons he can't explain.

"Some."

She nods, kind of, and doesn't say, "You look like hell," which he thinks she would have if this was really them, and what does that even mean? He rubs his eyes like he can wipe away the exhaustion, but it doesn't work. "I'm gonna take a shower," he says. She just walks away.

After, he wishes that he had stayed upstairs or decided to go for a run or something because it's over an hour before the kids wake up. It's over an hour of Lynette sitting at table nursing a cup of coffee and pretending to read the paper while he halfheartedly flicks through the television channels just to break the silence. He's so relieved when the twins walk into the house that at first he doesn't notice the looks on their faces: Porter's barely contained anger, and Preston's broken defeat. It's only once he stands to greet them with this saccharine cheerfulness and happens to glance at his wife that he realizes—the three of them are staring at one another like they're speaking some secret language that he's been left out of, but it's not hard to decipher.

"Can we just get this over with?" mutters Porter.

And suddenly Lynette is blinking back tears. She rushes into the bathroom, barely excusing herself, and Tom is left to gawk at his sons, whose eyes speak volumes of accusation. _They blame me_, he realizes stupidly, and it makes him angry. Angry at her, even though he knows that she didn't cause this, and angry at them for taking sides, and angry at himself because he already knows he'll take the blame for this even if it's not entirely his fault.

That should be telling, but it isn't.

Penny comes downstairs before Lynette emerges from the bathroom (eyes suspiciously red-rimmed and puffy), but she's as much of a storm cloud as everyone else, picking up on the mood like a finely tuned sensor. And Tom thinks that none of this should be surprising—he knew that they weren't fooling anyone—but the truth is that he's shocked and (terribly) a little relieved because maybe it won't be as bad as he thought. They know and they're angry, but at least no one is going to take this like a blow to the face. By the time Parker finally stumbles downstairs, still half-asleep, and pours himself a bowl of cereal, Tom has almost built up in his mind that this is all going to be okay.

It's a hope that is as flimsy as a house of cards.

"Are we out of milk?" Parker grumbles from where he stands, head stuck in the fridge. No one answers, but he doesn't seem to care, just sitting down and popping a Froot Loop into his mouth. Porter and Preston flank him after a moment, Penny tentatively almost half-sitting on Preston's lap, and Tom looks to Lynette because this is it, and they all know it. She doesn't meet his glance; she's staring at the kids, and for the life of him, he can't read her expression.

So he starts. "Kids, we have something to tell you."

Silence. Silence that stretches on and on while Parker crunches on his cereal, and Penny hugs this teddy bear she hasn't carried around in years, and the twins continue to stare with these vacant, angry expressions. He glances at Lynette again, but she's frozen, and it's with a dawning horror that he realizes she can't speak. It's with the tiniest flash of guilt that he realizes he expected her to be the one to actually say it because it's always her—she breaks the bad news, and God, what a burden to place on her; how annoying that she has suddenly decided she can't bear that responsibility.

"Your mother and I…" he starts, trailing off like he still expects her to jump in. Parker is suddenly strangely alert, hand frozen midway to his mouth, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

"You're getting divorced. Just say it."

It takes Tom a second to place the accusation—that it is Penny who blurts this out—because his eyes are now trapped on Lynette. She is white as a sheet, eyes large and lost, and he has this terrible feeling that he's seeing some little girl version of her that has been locked up for years and years. It's terrifying.

"Mom?"

"No." It's Tom who answers, speaking for the woman who has never lost her voice in the twenty-two years he's known her. It's a role he thought maybe he wanted; now he knows it's everything that's wrong in the world. He clears his throat. "No, we're not getting divorced."

"But?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't have half her strength—not for this. And for every moment he's criticized her for that in the past few weeks, it's ironic that he depended on that today. "We're…We've decided that we need a little time apart…to figure things out. I'm…It's just for a little while."

Parker's bowl falls on the floor. Tom jumps a mile in the air at the sound of it.

"You're not serious?" he asks, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them, and Tom realizes that not everyone knew what was coming.

Of course it's Parker. Parker, who has always seen the world through Tom's eyes. Parker, who for all of his teenage sarcasm, is still that too-loving, too-trusting, too-caring little kid at heart.

"Mom?"

Lynette nods. She's still so pale. "Sweetheart," she says, and it seems to confirm everything Parker couldn't believe. He gets up from the table and leaves the house. The vague thought floats through Tom's mind that he's outside in his pajamas, like that matters at all.

Preston stands, almost holding Penny for a moment like some flimsy rag doll, and Tom's surprised to see how calm he is. "It's not supposed to be like this," he says—like it's an indisputable fact. But then, the twins have always seen the world in black and white. "You can't even see what's right in front of your faces."

Lynette is trembling—he wonders for a moment if she's going to pass out—and she doesn't argue as Preston takes Penny's hand and follows Parker out the door. Porter is the last to leave, standing slowly and not saying a word. He doesn't need to; his anger speaks for itself.

And then they are alone.

Some absurd part of him wants to hug her. He doesn't. He takes her arm and forcibly sits her down, filling up a glass of water and handing it to her. "Drink," he orders, but the most she manages to do is take a sip.

In that moment he doesn't know what to do. He should leave—part of him wants to. But a larger part of him doesn't want to leave her alone.

"Lynette…"

"You should go," she says, and there is no secret plea there for him to contradict her.

At least none he can hear.

So he does as she asks, all the while wondering why now, of all times, he refuses to fight with her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **It's still not mine.

**A/n: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Your feedback is really a huge incentive to keep going with this, and I appreciate it more than you know.

**The Sun Sets Grey Over the Hills Tonight**

A story by **Ryeloza**

Until that night, Lynette would never have thought it possible to be exhausted and wired at the same time. After barely sleeping the night before, her body aches with fatigue; she continually presses at her eyes, trying to rub away the gritty, heavy feeling that has persisted all day. Yet at the same time, she can't sit still. She's up, pacing the bedroom, then attempting to fold the laundry, and then trying to read even though she can't even begin to focus on the print. She tells herself that she's waiting for the kids to get home (doesn't believe it because the reality is that Parker and Penny are probably going to crash at the twins' apartment), and thinks that eventually she'll just collapse in a dead sleep.

The real reason she can't sleep is so much messier and more complicated that she doesn't want to begin to dissect it. Partly it's that same dread she's faced for a week now of having to curl up in a bed that still smells like her husband and feel so alone and empty inside. Partly it's the hopelessness of tomorrow, knowing that the sooner she sleeps the sooner she'll have to face another day of them being apart—another day of not knowing how to fix this or even if it can be fixed. Partly it's the knowledge that the second she curls into bed with nothing to distract her, she knows that her mind will replay every moment of this horrible day.

And (what she really, really doesn't want to admit) partly it's knowing that she hasn't had the courage to check her email yet today, and she doesn't know what she'll do if she opens the account and doesn't see an email from him there.

It's somewhat ridiculous because she could easily email him first; already today she's written and rewritten a message to him in her head, not able to bring herself to put it down on paper, just leaving it jumbled in her mind. It's all a convoluted mess of things that can't find true form.

(_I'm sorry for melting down today but standing there watching the kids, all I could think about was when my stepfather left us and I was so, so, so angry at the world. So, so, so angry that I couldn't get over it for years, and suddenly I was back in that moment. Suddenly I was facing the possibility that we might be doing the same thing to our children. And now they're not answering my calls. Did you try to talk to them today? All I got is a text from Porter asking me to leave them alone, but I'm worried and I feel absolutely sick with guilt. And worst of all there's some big part of me that still thinks this was for the best because we can't keep going the way we have been. We need to fix this. But I don't know how. I don't even really know what went wrong because two months ago everything was fine, right?)_

It would be so easy to type out her thoughts, to find some way to make them make sense and admit everything she hasn't been able to say to him for months now. Over and over today, she's nearly done just that, but something always stops her. This niggling doubt, this stubborn thought that he has to be the one who writes the first message because it feels like she has put all of herself out there, put everything on the line, and it's his turn to show her that he really wants this too.

He needs to show her that he's not just going along with this because…because of whatever hundreds of reasons: he still doesn't want to disappoint her, or he was too scared to say the word "divorce" to the kids, or he was too tired to fight with her last night. He needs to show her that he wants to try.

She needs to know she's not in this alone.

And in all that fear and worry about what he's thinking (how does she not know what he's thinking after being able to read him like a book for years and years?), it suddenly seems like everything hangs on that one stupid email. It feels like one way or another, the moment she checks she'll get her answer, and she's torn between not being ready to face that and the absolute need to know.

She tosses her book across the room and pulls her knees to her chest, resting her head against them wearily. Part of her wishes that she had taken Renee up on her offer bring over wine and drink until they were both too soused to even remember their problems. She had demurred, pretending that she couldn't let the kids come home to that, really more worried that she'd turn into a drunken, sobbing mess. She doesn't drink when she's depressed. Angry or frustrated or happy, yes, but never maudlin, and Renee knows this even if she doesn't agree with the philosophy.

Of course, right about now she thinks that even if she had dissolved into an inconsolable mess, at least she'd probably have passed out by now. At the very least, she wouldn't be thinking straight; she wouldn't be putting too much meaning into everything and overanalyzing and worrying.

_God, just bite the bullet already_. _You are not this cowardly_. Strangely, the voice in her head sounds like some hybrid of Renee and Edie Britt, and Lynette feels this odd moment of sorrow knowing that Edie isn't here.

Edie wouldn't act this pathetic. And she wouldn't tolerate the behavior either.

The thought is enough to propel her out of bed, and she heads downstairs before she can change her mind again. She's caught entirely off-guard, though, by a flickering light in the living room—the television—and she walks into the room slowly, arms crossed over her chest. To her surprise, she finds Parker slumped down on the couch.

"Hi," she says. The word comes out like it was stuck in her throat. Cautiously, she sits down on the coffee table and stares at him; his eyes remain steadfastly fixed on the television. "Is your sister home too?"

There is a long pause, long enough that she wonders if her eighteen-year-old son is actually giving her the silent treatment (something he hasn't done since he was six). Everything about Parker screams "leave me alone" right now: his arms are crossed over his chest; he's scowling. Absurdly, though, she can only focus on the fact that he's wearing his brother's clothes; they're way too big and he's swimming in them. It makes some little part of her break.

"No," he says abruptly, startling her. "She's over at Porter and Preston's."

"Oh." She's not sure what else to say. Excuses and justifications tingle on the tip of her tongue, but that's not what Parker wants to hear. She recognizes his anger like staring in a mirror, but she still has no idea how to help. It's horrible.

Almost as horrible as knowing that she is the one who hurt her baby when all she's ever wanted to do is protect him.

"Did you eat dinner?" she finally asks. "It's still early—we could order a pizza. Or I could make—"

"I'm not hungry."

"Okay." She twists her hands and frowns. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

Slowly, Parker's eyes slide from the television screen to her face, and she's surprised by how much emotion is there. Not the anger she expected, but confusion and sadness and grief. It's the same look Tom had when she told him that she was relieved that he left.

She's beginning to think that one way or another, that moment is going to haunt her for the rest of her life.

"You're really not getting divorced?"

She shakes her head, not admitting that it's quite possibly just a matter of time. "No."

"But Dad…He left? He's…Where did he go?"

"He's staying in an apartment for now. It's only twenty minutes away. You can go see him any time."

"Yeah," Parker snorts. "Okay."

Lynette sighs. Unable to stop herself, she shifts to the couch, wrapping her arms around Parker and kissing his temple. It's the most impossible pain to comfort; she isn't surprised when he remains stiff and motionless in her embrace.

"Penny is convinced you're getting divorced," he says. "She thinks you hate each other."

She answers the implicit question unhesitatingly. "We don't hate each other. Even if none of this makes sense to you guys, you have to at least know that. I could never hate your dad, and he doesn't hate me either."

"But…?"

"But we've been fighting a lot, and the more we fight the less we want to talk. And if we can't talk, we can't fix any of this."

"So Dad moving out is going to make it _easier_ for you to talk."

The skepticism cuts her like a knife if only because it's one of those terrible worries she's been privately nursing for a while now. She honestly doesn't know. She wants to find her voice again; even more desperately, she wants Tom to find his. He's always been the communicator; he's always been the one who forces her to talk even in the moments where she dreads that more than anything. The fact that he's been so closed off, so unwilling to tell her anything lately…

She feels like she's been trying so hard, but maybe it's not hard enough.

Maybe it doesn't matter how hard she tries, Tom has already made up his mind.

"We have to try something, sweetheart. We can't just give up."

"That's what this feels like," says Parker quietly. In some way, he sounds like her: defeated. She hates herself for that. "Like you and Dad just gave up."

She kisses him again, squeezes him a little tighter. It's all the reassurance she can offer now, and that breaks her heart.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" She feels a palpable need to break this cycle; they're enough alike that they could sit here all night falling further and further into an abyss.

"We can really order pizza?"

"Yeah." She tries to smile, but doesn't quite pull it off. "Go ahead. Order whatever you want."

"Where are you going?"

"I just have to check my email," she says, already halfway off of the couch. She picks up the phone and hands it to Parker. "You order, and I'll be right back. We can stay up late watching those terrible horror movies you like so much."

This almost prompts a smile, and she leaves before she can see the moment pass. Having Parker here—knowing he needs her in a way that he hasn't in years—gives her a strength she didn't have before. Even if there's no word from Tom, she knows that she will have a purpose now; she will find the willpower not to break for the sake of her child. It is the incentive she's needed all day.

It takes too many long minutes to boot up the computer, and she tries to focus on the sounds in the other room: the cadence of Parker's voice mixed with the low noise from the TV. As she signs into her account, though, everything else in the world seems to fade away, lost in the rushing sound of water in her ears, and she unwittingly holds her breath as her email loads.

As irrational as it seems, she knows that this moment could very possibly define the rest of her life.

It takes her a minute, eyes scanning through the eight new messages, and she almost misses it in her hurry to find his name. But there it is, two from the top, his name smiling at her in this bright way that makes her eyes fill up with tears. Shakily, she lets out her breath and clicks on the email.

It's only one line. Her heart sinks for a moment. But then she reads it.

_I'm sorry I left you alone today._

And despite everything she's been thinking all day, despite the novel-length emails she's been composing in her head, when she clicks reply, there's only one thing to say_. _

_I'm sorry I told you to leave._

And as much as it looks like nothing, the truth is it feels like everything.


End file.
